Falling For Her Boss

by Tracy Reed

  “Amen.” She smiled. “You are very good for him.”

  “I am?”

  “Oui.” She placed a glass of water in front of the bowl.

  “You were saying about the other women…”

  “Monsieur never let them stay. He always keep them downstairs. If he wanted…to be intimate,” I smiled at her trying to be discrete. “He would go downstairs.”

  “He would?”

  “Oui. He never have them here.”

  “Did he say why?”

  “No. I just knew they were not…I know he did not…”

  “Mademoiselle Chantal never stayed upstairs?”

  “No. She came up for breakfast and one dinner. I didn’t like her.”

  I smiled. “Why not?”

  “Grossier, méchant, égoïste.” She shook her head frowning. Some words translate very well. “Please forgive.”

  “I understood what you said.”

  “She never attempt to speak French, not even merci. She demand we only speak Anglais.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “No. That offend him, but you…he smiles and is excited to see you considering him. He says you will be back soon for a visit.”

  “He did?”

  “Oui. I like you. We will be friends.”

  “I like you, too.”

  “Don’t hurt him.”

  “I won’t.”

  “And I will make sure he does not hurt you.”

  “Merci.”

  “Mange votre petit déjeuner…eat your breakfast.”

  * * *

  phillippe

  * * *

  This morning I got up with a new attitude and thought process for my relationship with Gabriella. Instead of focusing on what she’s not giving me, I’m focusing on what she is. I’ve been so consumed with how to avoid having her in my bed, that I forgot I have allowed her someplace no other woman has been.... my mind and my heart.

  I suspected she was a little drunk by the way she was acting last night. Or, maybe that’s the excuse I prefer to believe. If that was her sober, I’m in trouble.

  In my quest to be the perfect boyfriend, with Marie’s help I prepared a little morning hangover tray. I knocked on Gabriella’s door three times, but there was no answer. I took a chance and went inside. If she was in the shower, I’d leave the tray and disappear.

  I stood in the open doorway and looked around the room. The dreadful noise I heard scared me. It wasn’t the shower, but Gabriella snoring. How is it possible such a beautiful woman could make such a dreadful sound.

  I opened one shade to let in some light and cautiously approached the bed. I almost dropped the tray when my eyes landed on her in bed. I never expected to see what I saw. I thought I was standing in one of my dreams. I swallowed hard and tried not to look, but I couldn’t not look. It was the most beautiful site I had ever seen.

  In my fantasy, she slept in the nude, but my good sense told me otherwise. My God, the image of her lying on her back, her thick, dark, curly hair spread out on the pillows, and the sheet just below her navel, was breathtaking. My eyes traveled down the center of her body and back up resting on her incredible breasts. It was my dream come to life.

  I wanted to crawl into bed on top of her and fill my hands with her beautiful mocha colored breasts. Those perfect hard nipples were staring at me, just begging for my tongue. Then she smiled. Was she awake and teasing me? No. She must have been dreaming, and it had put a sweet smile on her face. Then she rolled over and pushed the sheet down, revealing the deep sway of her full, luscious behind. My mind and body were at war. My mind said leave. However, at that moment, I didn’t care that I had let her into my heart, when all I wanted to do was crawl on top of her and…I swallowed hard and forced my body to listen to my mind.

  I quietly hurried out, closing the door behind me. I leaned up against the wall, drank the water, and stood still waiting for my body to return to some sort of normalcy. I wiped my wet forehead, walked back to the kitchen, and placed the tray on the counter.

  “Marie, veuillez remplacer, merci.” I drank the water without stopping for air. “Encore, s’il vous plaît, merci.” This time I drank it in parts.

  “C’est tout?”

  “Please replace the water and napkin, and take the tray to Mademoiselle’s room. Merci.” She replaced the items and took the tray back to Gabriella’s room. When she returned, she topped off my water. “Was she still asleep?”

  “Oui.” She looked at me smiling.

  “Comment?” My body was still writhing, and sitting down was too painful. I must be out of my mind to have Gabriella here. I should have put her downstairs in the guest apartment. I looked at Marie. “Did you cover her up?”

  “Oui.” She was still smiling.

  “Comment?”

  “Qu’est-ce qui s’est passé hier soir?”

  “After dinner and the Moulin Rouge, we went dancing.”

  “You did?” She questioned me with a raised eyebrow.

  “Oui, and then nous sommes rentrées à la maison. Don’t look at me like that. Nothing happened. I kissed her and went to bed, alone.” I drank half of the water.

  “You did not sneak into her chambre à coucher?”

  “No, I did not go back to her bedroom last night.”

  She nodded. “And when you were in there, did you touch her?”

  “No.” I patted my forehead with the napkin.

  “But you wanted to.”

  “Oui, vachement.”

  “She’s beautiful, no?”

  “Très, très, très belle.”

  “This is the first time I see you be intimate with someone.”

  “Pardon?”

  “You are sharing you, and that takes great courage.”

  “Oui, it does.” She filled my glass again.

  “That means more to mademoiselle than all the belle dresses in Paris.”

  “She says she only wants me, not les choses…things.”

  “She’s not like cette fille.”

  “You’re right. She’s nothing like Mademoiselle Chantal.”

  She pointed to her chest. “Elle ne desire que ce qui est à l’intérieur.”

  “I know. She said she wants to know me.”

  “Then give her what she wants…you. Tell her everything.”

  “What if she leaves?”

  “She won’t.”

  I walked over and hugged her. “Merci, Marie.”

  “You are welcome.

  Chapter Eighteen

  gabriella

  * * *

  I sort of messed up Phillippe’s plans for today. Actually, it’s his fault for planning such an amazing date last night. He did very well with his rain check.

  Instead of going to a museum, we spent the afternoon walking around the city. We looked like all the other French couples or lovers strolling the city.

  “Marie likes you.”

  I looked at him smiling. “I like her, too.” He wrapped his arm around my waist and we continued walking. “She says she is going to teach me how to be a French woman.”

  “Really?” He smiled.

  “Oui.” He kissed me. “She’s been teaching me French.”

  “Vraiment ?”

  “Oui, vraiment.”

  “You understood what I said?”

  “Oui, Monsieur Marchant.”

  “Soon, tu parleras couramment.”

  “Maybe by our next trip.”

  “Next trip?”

  “Oui, Marie said you told her we would be back soon.”

  “Would you like that?”

  “Oui, beaucoup.”

  We stopped walking and he cupped my face in his hands and gently pressed his lips against mine. We stood on the side of the street kissing like some of the French couples I’d seen on our walk. “Merci.”

  “Pourquoi?”

  “Making the effort.”

  “Je ne comprends pas.”

  “That sounds so beautiful.” He kissed me ag
ain. “I love hearing you speak French.”

  I remembered what Marie said about how he loves speaking French. “I’m trying.”

  “And I appreciate it.” He slipped his arm back around my waist and we continued walking.

  “Besides, if we are going to be doing business here, I need to be able to communicate. I want to be an asset, not a liability.”

  “Liability?”

  “If I don’t understand the language, I can’t help you.”

  He stopped walking and looked at me. “What did you say?”

  “I’m part of your team, and we need to speak the same language. Did I say something wrong?”

  “No.”

  “Plus, Marie says you often slip into your French tongue when you get angry. I’m not going to argue with you without knowing what you’re saying.”

  “She said that?” We laughed and continued walking.

  “She also gave me a list of things I need to get.”

  “A list?”

  “Oui, she said now that I have survived my first night out in Paris, I need to become a proper French woman.”

  “She did?” he smiled.

  “Oui.”

  “And how are you to become a proper French woman?”

  I reached into my bag and pulled out the list and started reading. “She said I need a nice bag, Chanel or Dior if possible. A good pair of dark jeans and a pair of white jeans, a leather jacket, a beautiful scarf, preferably an Hermes scarf, the perfect black dress, black stiletto pumps, beautiful lingerie, a signature scent, and the perfect red lipstick.”

  “Let me see that.” I handed him the slip of paper. “You don’t have most of the things on this list. I guess this mean we’re going shopping?”

  I tried to take the list back and he raised his hand up so I couldn’t reach it. “Give me that.” We stopped walking and I tried to jump up and snatch the paper back.

  “Not until you answer my question.” I stood still, folded my arms across my chest pouting. “Now you look like a French woman.” He smiled. “Answer me, and I’ll give the paper back.”

  “Oui.” He kissed me and handed me the slip of paper.

  He took his phone out of his pocket, pressed a number and said something in French. He was speaking so fast, I couldn’t discern his side of the conversation. He ended the call, placed his phone back in his pocket and kissed me. “Dépêche-toi, nous ne voulons pas être en retard.” He took my hand and we continued walking.

  “Where are we going?”

  “To work on your list.”

  I stopped walking. “What did you do?”

  “You’ll see.”

  I hesitated, but his smile convinced me to trust him. We continued walking and a couple of blocks later, we stopped in front of a boutique. “Where are we?”

  “According to your list, you need some lingerie.”

  I looked at him. “Comment?”

  “You have an appointment inside.”

  “What ?”

  “This is one of the best lingerie shops in Paris.”

  My mouth dropped open and I looked at him. “Comment?”

  He took my hand and led me inside. “Bonjour, Monsieur Marchant.”

  “Bonjour, Madame Béatrice.” He kissed the older woman on the cheek. They exchanged words in French so fast I couldn’t understand. I looked around at all the beautiful delicate lace and silk underthings. French women really are different. “Mon amour…”

  “Oui…”

  “Madame, ma copine Gabriella.”

  “Enchantée.”

  “C’est un plaisir de faire votre connaissance. Elle est belle.”

  “Merci.”

  “Ah, vous parlez français ?” she asked.

  “Un peu.” I smiled.

  “We will use English.”

  I looked at Phillippe. “Mon amour, Madame Beatrice is going to help you.”

  “Help me?”

  “I told her you wanted to get some things.”

  “Excusez-nous.” I waited for her to walk away. “What did you do?” I looked around the store. It was obvious that not only was everything beautiful, it was also very expensive.

  “I told her you wanted to get a few things.”

  “Phillippe…I’m not…” I looked at him and I could see that if I rejected his gift, he’d be upset. “I’ll only accept this gift if you leave.”

  He raised up his hands to surrender. “Agreed.” He smiled, took my hand and escorted me back to the older woman. “I gave Madame Beatrice a limit and instructions not to tell you how much.”

  “Comment!”

  “I don’t want you to think about the money.” He kissed me. “I will be back in two hours.” He turned to Madame Beatrice. “Will that be enough time?”

  “Oui, Monsieur.”

  He kissed me. “A bientôt, Mon amour.” He walked out and Madame Beatrice turned to me.

  “Mademoiselle, I see the look on your face. Oui, he has bought for others, but not like this.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.” She smiled. “Now let’s get started.

  Two hours quickly turned into three hours. When Phillippe returned, I had a new lingerie wardrobe, and I have to admit, I did feel a little sexier. French women really know how to embrace their femininity.

  * * *

  phillippe

  * * *

  I must be out of my mind. I just begged my girlfriend, who I am not sleeping with, to let me buy her a new lingerie wardrobe which I will probably never see. I hope she gets at least one night gown and a robe. Not that it will matter, because every time I close my eyes, I’ll see her lying in bed looking like a beautiful, naked angel.

  What is happening to me? I walked into the kitchen.

  “How was your walk?”

  “Oh…I didn’t see you, Marie.” I walked over to the counter, opened a bottle of water, and took a long swallow.

  “I’m sorry. How was your walk?”

  “It was nice.”

  “Where did you go?”

  “Nowhere in particular.”

  “How is Madame Beatrice?”

  I almost choked on my water. “Excusez moi?”

  “I saw Mademoiselle Gabriella carrying sacs from a certain lingerie shop.” She continued washing dishes. “That will not make her change her mind about being intimate with you.”

  “Je sais.”

  “If you know, then why do it?”

  “She said you told her she needed some lingerie.”

  “Oui, but you did not have to buy it.”

  “I wanted to.”

  “Pourquoi ?”

  “I don’t know. I just…it excited me to see her smile.”

  “You didn’t need to buy her expensive lingerie to see her smile.” She walked over and patted my chest. “Just share your heart and you will always see her smile.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  gabriella

  * * *

  “You seem far away. What’s troubling you?”

  I leaned back against Phillippe’s chest. I think this is the most intimate we’ve been apart from kissing. I can feel his heart beating and the steady rhythm is calming. I can also feel something else pressing against my behind. I’m trying not to get too close, but the third person in our little day at the park is making it’s presence known.

  I lifted his hand looking at his long, thick fingers and the vast palm. These are the hands of a strong man. A man that knows what he wants and how to get it. I placed my hand against his and it dwarfed in comparison.

  “You have incredibly large hands.”

  “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

  I was suddenly reminded of my Aunt Niki’s words about the size of a man’s hand in relation to the size of a couple of other parts of his body. I looked at Phillippe’s feet and they too were extremely large. And judging from the third person at our picnic, I think it was safe to say Aunt Niki’s theory might be correct. My mind went to a place I’ve been trying to avoi
d, especially while conscious.

  “Uhm…depends?”

  “Depends?”

  “Oui. Depends on the current need.”

  “Excusez moi?” I tilted my head and looked up at him smiling. “I sense someone is being bad.”

  “Who me?”

  “Oui, vous avec le beau sourire.”

  “You lost me on that one.”

  “The one with the beautiful smile.”

  “Merci.” I got back in my spot.

  “I want to ask you something.”

  “Ce quoi?”

  He lifted my hand and kissed it. “Don’t take this the wrong way and it’s not a ploy, just curiosity.” I turned to face him. “Why have you decided to wait until marriage to have sex?”

  I tucked my hair behind my ear and looked at him. I knew at some point this was going to come up and he’d want a more defined answer. “I uhm…”

  “Is it because of God or did something happen?”

  “It’s because of God. I believe in and love Him, so I choose to follow His word and commands. It’s not like he doesn’t want me to have sex. He just wants me to share that only with my husband.” I looked at him waiting on a response. “I love God first and foremost. Yes, I could have had sex and I know God would have forgiven me, but I don’t think I would have forgiven myself.”

  “You don’t?”

  “No.”

  “I don’t want to just have sex. I know it may sound like innocent schoolgirl talk, but I want to make love. For me, being in a relationship is serious.”

  “Me too.”

  I patted his chest. “I mean, it’s not like I’ve dated a lot, but the few times I have, I’ve always asked myself, ‘Is this someone I could picture myself growing old with? Having babies with? Making love to?’”

  He smiled. “And what were your answers when you met me?”

  “You’re assuming I asked myself questions about you.” I smiled.

  “You just said…”

  How can I say what I feel without it causing a problem. What if my response scares him and ends all of this? “I’ve been too afraid to let my mind go there.”